Page 74 of Realm of Thieves

She’s addressing Brynla more than me, so I let her do the talking. “We’ve fared well so far,” Brynla says to her as they start walking down the tunnel in the direction we were originally going, with Lemibehind them and then me. “The guards were touch and go, but other than that we had a smooth journey over the Burning Sands.”

I hold back a laugh. As if our crossing could have been described as anything but arduous. I might have enhanced physical prowess, but I struggled to keep up with Brynla in the dunes. I’m unused to the sensation of wayward sand burning my legs, and even now I wonder how long it will take for my eyesight to go back to normal after being exposed to all that glare.

I follow them down the tunnel, lit again by intermittent torches, and listen to their conversation while taking in what I can. The Dark City is nothing like I imagined. I envisioned a pit of the uncivilized filled with miserable cretins, those who were deemed too unsavory for Esland—a place that already had a bad reputation.

But I had been wrong, at least from what I can see with my own eyes. Walking down the grand staircase that descends into the city is like stepping into another world, one with color and light and life inside all the darkness. There were patches of farmed greenery beneath the beating sun that shone from the cavernous hole in the ceiling, butterflies and hummingbirds in the air, people who were more refined than I imagined. Sure, they cast a wary eye toward me and their clothes were by no means new, but they were cleanly attired, wrapped in layers of linen, and their faces didn’t harbor any malevolence. There were smells that wouldn’t seem out of place in the markets of Menheimr: spices, fried meats, sweet wine, and the sounds of laughter and chatter in beguiling accents.

I wouldn’t trade my life at Stormglen for one underground, but I can see why Brynla wasn’t jumping at the chance to escape. And no matter what, a life of relative freedom here in the Dark City offers more than one under the fanatical tyrants of Esland.

Ellestra and Brynla’s conversation stays light, talking about their neighbors and whatever else Brynla has missed while she’s been away. I have a feeling the deeper questions will be brought to me later.

We walk for another fifteen minutes or so, through winding tunnels and down narrow clay stairs, occasionally passing by other people. Most of them nod politely at us, me included, though the ones who seem to know Brynla and her aunt personally are more apt to give me a disparaging look.

Finally we come to a wide passageway that’s lit by torches with a few makeshift doors on either side. Outside each door is something to sit on, like a dilapidated chair or a tree-stump stool or a rock affixed with a sheepskin rug on top. One even has an orange cat sleeping in a wooden box, which takes a lazy look at Lemi before going back to sleep.

“Here we are,” Ellestra says, stopping outside a door with two tree stumps outside it, a chipped cup and saucer on one of them. The door is flimsy and seems to be made from some combination of frayed wood and dried palm fronds. She pushes it open and we step inside into a dark cavern.

“Give me a moment to light things,” she says, taking a torch off the wall outside and walking around the room, lighting sconces and lamps at different intervals. In glowing orange flame, their house reveals itself.

It’s larger than I thought, the furnishings nice enough if not sparse—faded rugs overlapping on the cave floor, a low dresser along the wall with candles and a small stack of books, a small couch and a rocking chair piled with blankets facing a hearth that Ellestra is currently lighting with her torch. At the other end is a round table with a couple of chairs and a stool; a small nook for a kitchen with a cistern and woodstove, the pipes leading somewhere out of the cave ceiling; and what looks to be a mound of hay covered with a blanket on the ground. I’m curious about it for a moment until Lemi goes straight to it and flops down—his dog bed.

“I’m sure we live like peasants compared to you,” Ellestra says tome as she replaces her torch outside and shuts the door. “But it’s home.”

“It looks lovely,” I say to her, trying to come across as genuine as possible. I have a feeling she’ll be quick to hold a dagger to my throat if given the slightest provocation.

Ellestra rolls her eyes and looks over at Brynla. “I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. That Norlander slang.”

“Does ‘lovely’ not mean the same here?” I ask, but both of them seem to ignore me as they go to the kitchen. Brynla takes a torch off the wall and lights the woodstove while Ellestra fills up a kettle from the basin. They maneuver past each other with ease, movements matching each other, and I feel like I’m getting a glimpse into Brynla’s everyday life, a peek at her past.

“Tell your boy to sit down,” Ellestra says to her.

“He’s not my boy,” Brynla says, looking slightly embarrassed. Good to know I still bring a flush to her cheeks.

“He’s your something, that’s for sure,” Ellestra mumbles under her breath.

I take a dutiful seat at the table, unable to take my eyes off Brynla as she rummages through a threadbare pantry, wondering what’s to come and wishing we were alone.

“Do we have any of that mint tea?” Brynla asks her aunt.

“Right there.” She nods at a small linen bag.

Brynla sniffs it. “This isn’t the good stuff. I’m talking about the one from Farmer Vale. The one for guests.”

Ellestra sighs as if Brynla’s asked for the moon. She stands beside her and pulls out a small paper bag, shoving it in Brynla’s hands.

“I don’t need anything fancy,” I say, splaying my hands. “Don’t waste the good tea on me.”

Ellestra gives me a tired look while Brynla sprinkles the tea leaves into the kettle’s sieve.

“It’s customary for Freelanders to offer water in two forms when a guest comes to stay or visit,” Ellestra says to me. “In a tea, and in a bath or basin.”

“I don’t need a bath,” I tell her, though I quickly smell myself to make sure that I’m right. So far so good. “I took one in the ocean yesterday. Brynla did too.” At least I assume she did—she went off the bow and out of sight while the rest of the crew had a dip off the stern. Salt water doesn’t clean as well as fresh, but with the right soap it works in a pinch.

“As I said, it’s customary,” Ellestra says sternly. “Water is in short supply in the Banished Land. This offering is the highest honor. And one you shouldn’t refuse, unless you want to be cast into a slug web. I’ll get a bath going for you.”

At that she grabs a torch and walks off down the hallway that leads out from the room.

“You saw me take a bath yesterday,” I tell Brynla. “At least, I saw you avert your eyes once I took my pants off.”

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